


The Voice that Urged Orpheus

by TheMightierPen



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician), As it Was - Hozier (Song), Hozier - Fandom, In the Woods Somewhere - Hozier (Song), Talk - Hozier (Song)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMightierPen/pseuds/TheMightierPen
Summary: This was written for a friend of mine, after a text conversation about Hozier writing Irish folk songs, and also he concept of him as a siren.  Typing that I now realize that that makes three of my four works based on text conversations.  Well, enjoy I guess.
Kudos: 16





	The Voice that Urged Orpheus

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a friend of mine, after a text conversation about Hozier writing Irish folk songs, and also he concept of him as a siren. Typing that I now realize that that makes three of my four works based on text conversations. Well, enjoy I guess.

There are Muses of Epic, and of History. Of Song, and Dance, and the Stars themselves. All are borne of Memory. But do you ever wonder; who are the Muses of the lost songs? Of the stories untold, for those who would tell them are lost themselves. Lost to those most gifted by the Muses. Sirens, Faeries, the ones who lure us in with the promise of melodies so sweet that we cannot help but savour them. 

You really had thought that this journey would be a good idea. 

Just a quick run around the coast, and back home. 

But now you are surrounded in a fog so thick that you do not know where you are. Close to Ireland, perhaps? The fresh sea air hits your face as you stand on the bough of the ship, making the loose cotton of your shirt wave, and your hair blow wild. You have been at sea long enough to know the briny smell that coats the ship, and all those on it. You are used to it. You might even enjoy it. But there is little to enjoy as the sea beneath you, wine-dark and churning, tosses your ship about.

Men fight to keep the sails aloft, fight against the sky itself to keep you afloat. You know better though. You are at the mercy of sea and sky, and only they will choose to free you from their depths. Thunder rolls as lightning strikes nearby. A sign of land, you hope, as you see the lightning strike true to a ground you cannot see. Another flash, and the fog is illuminated for a brief moment. Rocks, jagged and slick with algae, lie ahead in your course. 

You call out to warn the crew.

You do not know if they heard you.

You point out, shouting now.

They begin to shout back.

As lightning flashes, and the rocks loom for seconds at a time, you feel the boat begin to slow. They have lowered the sails, and set the anchor. The storms still rage, and sea foam licks at the hull, but you are still enough that you will be spared from a watery grave for now. 

Watches are set, and schedules arranged. Those on first watch head to their positions. The captain ushers you to your cabin for the night. You will not take watch. You are to stay below deck, where it will be safe from the storm.

You sit in your cabin, running fingers through your sea-soaked hair, and changing into dry clothes for the night. When you settle down though, you feel an air come over your room, an icy chill that runs deeper into your bones than any sea-spray ever has. You wrap up into a quilt, and blow out your candle, laying down to sleep. As soon as you close your eyes, though, you hear it. It is soft, and distant, but it fills your ears. A song.

_My head was warm,_

_My hair was soaked._

_I called your name ‘til the fever broke._

The voice was faint, but you could hear a soft, lilting tone. Slowly you rose, and lit a candle. You slid into slippers and out onto the deck. Still it was covered fog, and still you could feel the rain hitting your skin, soaking through your dressing gown. The men sat watch, but none of them seemed to notice as you padded across the deck. You went all the way out the bough of the ship, the voice getting just slightly louder as you did. The melody had changed, though, to something new.

_There is roadway, muddy and foxgloved_

_Never I’d had life enough_

_My heart is screaming out._

You ask the crew if they can hear him. They act like you aren’t there. They go about their business, cleaning the deck and pulling their ropes. The fog thickens around you, and around the ship. It’s closing in, and it obscures the sides of the deck. Crewmates vanish into it, and you turn back out to the sea, and the rocks that lie ahead. The voice is carried along on the breeze towards you, soft and inviting. You feel it pull you out to the sea ahead. Rocks be damned.

You take another step, just at the end of the deck. Another few steps and you’re on the figurehead. Another step and the ocean would be your bed. You almost take it. Anything to follow the voice that call to you. You drop your candle, and it falls. You watch it drop into inky depths, but you don’t quite understand

A hand pulls you back, and your mind slams back into your body. A crewmate reprimands you, and you shake your head. The voice begins to fade, the gusts of wind that carried it beginning to calm. The raging storm has turned into light mists, but the fog still clouds your sight. Now, though, you cannot see the quarterdeck, let alone the sea beyond. 

_So stick to the cratur’ the best thing in nature_

_For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys_

_O lord knows I wonder if lightning and thunder_

_Was made from the plunder of whiskey, me boys_

A familiar song, to be sure, but the voice that brought it to your ears was intoxicating. You let the crewmate take but a few steps ahead of you, until he was out of your sight, swallowed by the fog. No matter, you knew your way to where you were going. Not back to your room, though. No, you took careful steps towards the landing boats. You took a seat, and an oar in each hand, and lowered yourself. The hull of your own little boat met with the water below, and you unlatched from the ship. 

A single gust of wind carried you forwards, and you put your oar into the sea, fighting to follow your target. It was mere moments later that you lost sight of the ship. You saw nothing ahead but the rocks that peeked out, covered in moss and slime. The voice led you on, directing you through a dangerous path. Soon, you realized that you had stopped rowing. The sea itself was carrying you, guiding you in a way that no man could match.

You stood at the helm of your boat, letting sea spray wash over you, and the wind blow your hair and nightgown all around you. The music of the night beckoned you onwards, and you followed, unable to turn back now. The louder it got, and the closer you came, the more it ensnared your mind, its tendrils growing up around your heart and mind like dark ivy.

The boat slowed, and you saw land approach. The mainland was still far in the distance, but rocks and tiny islands dotted out from the shore, meeting you in the deep sea. Upon one, a figure stood. Long hair awash in salted sea water, his shoes licked by foam and mist, his song echoed into your very soul. He called to you.

_I’d be the voice that urged Orpheus_

_When her body was found._

_I’d be the choice-less hope in grief_

_That drove him underground_

_I’d be the dreadful need in the devotee_

_That made him turn around_

_And I’d be the immediate forgiveness in Eurydice_

_Imagine being loved by me._

And oh, how you could imagine it. He reached out his hand, as your boat made shore with his own little island. He smelled of moss and salty sea air, and in his palms you knew what waited. So, you took it, and you stepped into his world.

They ask who the Muse of lost stories could possibly be. Who sings tales of those whose tales are lost? Listen, and you will hear her. Her song is carried on the winds of the night, in the voices you almost hear. She blesses those who steal, and those who are stolen. Those who wait on craggy rocks in the ocean’s depths, and those in the deep forests. She is the legend that comes back, when young women go missing on their little boats. When all that comes back to the ship is the dinghy, and a lace night gown.

She is the Muse of the lost. 

She is the Muse of the found.


End file.
